


Forever Wrong

by DireBear



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-22
Updated: 2012-04-22
Packaged: 2017-11-04 03:54:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/389456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DireBear/pseuds/DireBear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a boisterous celebration at Winterfell, Jon and  Robb uncover feelings for other that have been simmering for years.</p><p>I would love feedback. Thanks to 1shinymess for awesome editing suggestions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forever Wrong

The Great Hall of Winterfell rang with laughter, the way it did only when the folk of Riverrun were visiting. Many were cousins of her ladyship, but they had none of her proper bearing. Perhaps it had been the years in the North that had worn the flash out of her Tully eyes. But fueled by a few horns of Winterfell’s strong summer beer, the spirit of Riverrun enlivened her face and carried her back to the wilder days of her youth. She certainly looked the part, resplendent in violet silk trimmed with silver fox fur.

All the Starks enjoyed the feast. Bran and Rickon had mates closer to their ages-- and youthful energies. Arya, who cared little for affairs of court, bonded with a young cousin, Mairin, who seemed to be less interested in girlish things than Arya herself. So the young lady had a regular co-conspirator for catching frogs, crossing swords, and staging mock battles between twig armies and woodmunk monsters. And Sansa finally was surrounded by young ladies who were thrilled at her potential ascension to Queen. .

But no one brightened more than Robb. The burdens of the House Stark had seemed to weigh too heavily lately. The past few months had exposed Robb to the burdens of rule: the difficulty of resolving disputes, the tedium of maintaining ties with the bannermen, the satisfying but sobering acts of charity and mercy. Robb’s body had long ago begun the march to manhood, taking after the lithe and wirey Tullies. 

Robb the summer's boy was back, now with the lusty confidence of a young lord, and he cut a virtely young figure in his leather trousers and boiled woll tunic with the Stark direwolf sigil embroidered in grey. Robb was old enough now to have memories with his young cousins, particularly Marcwell. They were boys of eight together for a summer at Riverrun-- summer of scuffed knees strained voices, and short scars, all of them dishonorable and won with peels of boyish laughter. Marcwell was Robb’s impish twin-- all Tully fire with no Stark ballast. Their kinship was magnetic, and the post-feast table was crowded with Riverrun’s rowdiest knights and young squires. Robb and Marcwell shouted their jests and their curses in unison, cheered on by a small army.

The women of Riverrun noticed, too. For all their appearance as twins, Robb had an additional quality that Marcwell Tully did not: leadership. Marcwell was popular and amusing, but Robb was charismatic, bolstered with the Stark gravitas. The men of Riverrun hung on his every word; the women swooned with every chorus of hearty laughter. One of the loveliest of the Riverrun court, Evaylyn, let herself catch Robb looking at her and feigned embarrassment at the lapse of modesty. Robb rewarded the gesture with that rarest of gifts: the a luminant Tully smile. Evaylyn’s coterie, Stansa included, noticed with a chorus of coos.

Jon noticed, too. He had been banished to the back benches, or the bastard benches, as his fellow bastards and low-lifes called them. Jon was desperate for camaraderie tonight, and he found some fellowship at the back of the hall. Usually, the lowborn considered him a haughty lord-in-waiting; those closer to the court knew of Lady Stark’s contempt for him and kept their distance. Jon felt tonight as he often did: in a crowd of people he knew, he was alone; in a moment when most people felt joy, he seethed with anger. He searched the great hall for an ally, but Robb, his brother in all but name, was lost to him.

The moment for Jon was all the more painful because of what happened the last time the Tullys of Riverrun visited more than ten years ago. Jon and Robb were boys of seven and inseparable. Ser Roderick said that they were “one mind with two swords.” They ran about the great hall and the feast like wild young wolves: wrestling, begging treats, and howling for attention from their older pack mates. Winterfell knew that Robb was the heir, but as long was Lord Stark was alive the two boys were like equals and seemed as one: Robb and Jon, Jon and Robb. To any observer, it was true. they were a single tangle of limbs and one laugh, one yelp, one befuddled silence.

On that fateful night a decade ago, the singular boystorm that was Robb and Jon ended up at the feet of Catelyn Stark and her sister, Lysa Aryn. They were a breathless tumble, chased by an unseen horde of enemies. Catelyn was amused and tousled the hair of both young boys; Lysa bristled.

“Why do you coddle the bastard so?”

“He’s but a boy, and Robb’s best friend. Everyone says that they are of one soul and two bodies,” Catelyn said. 

“You can’t see it, can’t you?”

“See what?”

“Every breath that Jon takes, he steals from Robb. Every morsel that Jon eats, he starves Robb. Every blow that Robb suffers in the training yard, Jon strengthens. Every smile Jon earns from Ned is an hour earned in Stark shame.”

“I am no happier with a bastard living under my roof than any woman would be. But he is just a boy,”

“But you are not any woman. You are the Lady of Winterfell and a daughter of the House of Tully. And he is no more ‘just a boy’ than a dire wolf is a dog. It’s as if you see them as equals. You might as well strangle Robb in his crib.”

Jon, emerging from a tussle with his half brother, responded to the challenge: “Who would harm whim so? Let me know his name and I will slit him from his belly to his throat with the finest steel in Winterfell.”

“Then point your sabre at you own heart, boy,” said Lysa, as Robb recoiled. “If you love your brother, flee from him. Every beat of your heart is a blow to Robb’s chest. Every day you live is a day day closer to Robb’s death.”

Jon’s eyes stung with tears as he looked pleadingly at Robb. “But I love my brother,” protested Robb.

“Then you wish to break your mother’s heart and cripple your father’s dreams,” said Lysa. 

Robb’s eyes burned with tears; Jon’s body trembled and looked away from his brother’s aunt.

But Lysa had one more blow to land, and this one was for Catelyn: “Do you care so little for the shame of your children? Your family? Our father?”

Catelyn’s chest heaved in defeat, and tears and streaks of red clouded those famous Tully blue eyes. “What would you have me do? Harm him? Cast him out into the snow? Ned would never have it.”

“What is it that you Starks say? ‘Winter is Coming’? Well winter has come for the bastard. Let him survive, but no more. Do not speak to him. Do not meet his eyes. The damage is done with the children, but you can let the bastard know for once and for all that he is not a Stark, and never will be.”

Turning to Jon she said, “Listen to me, bastard. Go and play with the stable boys and the washer girls. They are your lot now and forever. Be grateful that anyone in Winterfell will speak to you at all.”

Jon tore off into the crowd. He was young, but not too young to understand. Robb wept bitterly, and his mother reached to comfort him.

“A lord may only cry alone, young Stark. And a Stark never cries,” said Lysa. “Come play with your cousins. Marcwell wants you to learn some of the games of Riverrun.”

“I want to practice swords with Jon,” he sobbed.

“There will be time to practice with Marcwell tomorrow,” said Lysa. “He’s the finest young sword in all of Riverrun.”

Catelyn sympathy was crushed by Robb’s show of impertinence. “Robb, you will go with Lady Arryn. Now.” There were now two burning arrows of Tully fire trained on Robb, and no mere Stark could defend against them. His body went limp, crestfallen in his defeat. He hid his tear-streaked face in his mother’s skirts and sobbed. “Robb,” Catelyn rasped, “You must go with Lady Arryn.”

Robb knew that he had been defeated and relented. He joined Marcwell and cheered up, the way children do. As the feast wound down, he caught Jon’s eye at the back of the room, alone, sullen, leaning against the wall. His eyes burned again with tears, and his soul heaved with a perplexing mix of longing, contempt, yearning, and sadness for Jon that he would feel for the rest of his life-- and never understand.

Lady Arryn would never visit Winterfell again, and the harsh lines she drew for Jon would fade for it. Catelyn’s heart turned cold for Jon, but she did not have the resolve to scrub him from the lives of her children. Arya in particular doted on him; they seemed to speak a language that no one else could understand. Bran and Rickon followed him around, idolizing him, despite her efforts, in the same way that they did Robb. And of course young Lord Stark was closer to Jon than ever, abetted by his father’s argument that the greater shame for the family would be to abandoned bastard who they once embraced. “‘What’s they value of a Stark promise?’ they will say,” he argued. “And the answer will be ‘Ask Jon Snow.’”

Jon dulled the pain of the memories of that night with casks of summer beer, and eventually, his spirit warmed to the revelry around him. Winterfell’s riff-raff welcomed a loose-jointed, less scornful Jon Snow; the low-born of Riverrun knew nothing about his history. Indeed, those surnamed “Rivers”-- and there were many among the travleing maids and stable hands-- felt a certain kinship with a man named Snow. And as Robb did at the other end of the hall, Jon’s mood lifted under the influence of the high-spirited folk of Riverrun.

Those spirits were fortified by a rare Rivverun spirit of another kind: Plumfyre. It was a strong drink of fermented plum juice. strained, and mellowed in charred casks for a decade. Normally, you would not find such a rarefied treat at the bastard benches. But this cask had been deemed too dark to serve to the Starks, so a wily stable hand saved it from being poured into the river. It might have been unfit for royalty, but it was a treasure to the servants. Its potency was undimmed, and shots of Plumfyre furtively made their way across the back of the hall.

Larya Rivers took her share and then some. Flame-haired and vivacious, Larya was the illegitimate daughter of Brandyn Tully, Marcwell’s father, and a milk maid. So when she heard Jon’s story, she felt a bond, a bond that was strengthened by Jon’s dark good looks, the sorrowful look in his eyes when no one was looking, and they way the muscles of his boy’s body were exploding into manhood and asserting themselves at the seams of his tunic. She flashed the Tully eyes at Jon and he responded with a bashful grin. The Plumfyre made her bold. She poured a cup for Jon, hoping to awaken the boldness that flashed beneath his dark eyes.

“So what have we here?” asked Jon

“You have the finest woman in Riverrun,” answered Samwell Loren of Riverrun.

“I see that,” said Jon with an uncharacteristic wink. “I meant the cup, not the lass,” inspiring laughter all around.

“It’s Plumfyre, Jon Snow.”

“They say it makes men more manly and the women more willing,” shouted Loren.

“Then I shall drink if you will,” said Jon.

“Bottoms up, Snow,” said Larya, downing her cup.

“I’ll wager that it’s Larya’s bottom that will be up before the night is over.”

“Save your low talk for the stables, Samwell,” said Jon. “I’ll not see my lovely lady dishonored!”

“Your Lady! Larya’s no lady and I’ll wager you a cup of Plumfyre that you haven’t the courage to kiss her!” challenged Samwell. Jon blushed once at the suggested and again when he caught the “yes” in Larya’s eyes.

“Then you shall sleep thirsty tonight my friend”

Jon grabbed Larya by the waist and attempted a kiss. The press of her lips against hers was sweeter than he expected and stirred him in a way he did not expect. It was joyful, for a moment. And then bubbling up from the depths of ale and Plumfyre came the terrifying realisation that he had no idea of what to do next. He’d seen that it involved tongues and open mouths, but that involved a far more complex navigation of anatomy than he could muster. So, in an instant, he pulled away, pleased and befuddled. The crowed roared, and Larya gently giggled at her lover’s amateur but ardent effort.

Across the hall, Robb watched the commotion. At first, he enjoyed seeing Jon so playful with his new found friends. It just was not like his brother: the smiles, the challenges, the jests-- none of it. But everything changed with the kiss. It sounded like a thunderclap inside his head. He felt angry, as if something precious had been stolen from him. And he had no idea what or why. He bolted away from the table leaving a trail of puzzled faces in his wake.

Jon’s momentary befuddlement was broken by Samwell offering his tribute-- a brimming cup of heady Plumfyre. He started the chant, “Drink, Snow, Drink! Drink, Snow Drink!” And the crowd joined in. Jon complied, chugging down the potent potion. It burned his throat, and sent his head whirling. He felt a stumble coming and but recovered, barely keeping down a surge of fire rising in his throat.

“Just breathe, green boy.” laughed Larya. 

“Just kiss me, lovely lady.” Jon lunged awkwardly for a second kiss, but tripped over a bench and tumbled to the floor. 

“And the Plumfyre of Riverrun takes another soul of Winterfell!” shouted Sam, and the back benches convulsed in laughter, which stopped abruptly when Robb arrived at Sam’s table. “Your Lordship,” Samwell said, trying to muster the necessary polish.

Suddenly the folk of the bastard benches lept to their feet.

“It seems my friends from Riverrun have a lot to teach the lads of Winterfell when it comes to holding our drink,” said Robb, nearly drunk himself. “And the lesson for my brother appears to be over for tonight.” And while he managed a smile, the men and women of Winterfell only laughed nervously; those of Riverrun were too surprised at Jon’s identity to do anything but stare as Robb helped Jon to his feet and led him away to his room.

But Jon would not be steered. Robb struggled to keep Jon from slamming into the walls. Gods, when did he get so heavy? He was taller now, and tougher to support. And there was that anger again. Why was Jon acting so foolishly over a girl he didn’t know?

“Go back,” slurred Jon. As if another kiss would happen. As if another drink would be smart. 

“I want to go back.” As if the crowd would accept him again after all this.

“Leave me alone.” When I get him alone, I’ll give him a piece of my mind, Robb thought. And maybe a piece of my fist for his nasty temper.

“You always ruin it. You always have to be Young Lord Stark,” Jon slurred. “Just when I am having a laugh and getting a kiss, you ruin it. Like you ruin me, curse the gods.”

Robb’s mind flashed red. Ruin? I saved you.

Robb pushed open the door and propped Jon up against the wall. The room was sweltering from the heat of the feast down the hall, so he threw open a window. That will cool his head, he reasoned, and maybe mine. But Jon would not have it.

“You always ruin me. You ruin the world.”

“Shut up, Jon.” Gods, shut him up.

“Yes, my lord and master.” Through the drunken haze, the sarcasm bit Robb like a weirsnake. He grabbed Jon and shoved him up against the wall with a thud.

“Go ahead. My lord will shut me up now,” Jon said, his breathing heavy and his eyes wide, his lips a swords’ width away from Robb’s. Robb felt a bewildering storm of signals from him: defiance, anger, desperation, and passion all marched, banners blazing and horns blaring, in his direction. Is he yielding, or demanding to be yielded to? What do I do now? So Robb did the only thing he could think of.

Robb kissed Jon. Deeply. He tasted of tears, Plumyre, and sex.

This was not the kiss that the wind gives the weirwood leaves. It was a rough kiss; a hammer blow; a demand for submission. A kiss that came equipped with a rough hand behind Jon’s neck and a rougher grind in his hips. A kiss that delivered the warrior’s ultimate weapon: surprise.

And Jon was surprised to say the least. His breath disappeared inside Robb’s; his mouth burned under the assault of Robb’s tongue. His chest heaved, his arms flexed and flailed. His mind raced, but could not get a grip on a single thought-- just the surge of Robb’s soul flashing through his.

Something was unleashed inside Robb. His fury galloped. And his breeches strained to contain his stiffening prick. "I will be satisfied. He will submit." these thoughts raced through his mind. He felt wildly out of control yet never more alive. "I will not damage him, but I will leave my mark and it will hurt. He will submit." He released Jon from the kiss and threw him on the bed.

“Robb... I...” Jon mumbled. Is the submitting? Encouraging me, Robb wondered. He don’t care. They had fought and wrestled countless times. But this was different. There was an bewildering longing and dread for what was to come, for Robb on top of Jon, holding him down, biting his neck. .

Robb’s hand was at Jon’s waist, unbuckling his trousers and tearing off his smallclothes, and turning him around. 

“Listen to me, Snow,” he growled, his prick in his hand, entering Jon. “You are mine. I. Control. You,” he growled, spitting into his hand, lathering his prick, and thrusting it inside Jon, a grunt punctuating each thrust. Snow mumbled a halfhearted protest. Another handful of pushes and Robb spent deep inside Jon with a grimace.

“Robb... I...” Jon could still only murmur. Hewas still too drunk to speak, too gobsmacked to think. His body arched with pain and ecstasy and then collapsed when Robb released him. His cock was hard as stone. Robb put his prick away, and bolted out of bed. He could not meet Jon’s eyes, closing his own until they reopened behind tears as he ran to his own room, bolted the door, and passed out, drunk, spent, and bewildered.

Robb’s was a dreamless sleep but morning announced itself like a sack of stones dumped at his bedside. It did not help that theon Greyjoy stood over the bed, kicking the frame.

“My young lordship,” Theon said with a sarcastic smirk. “Ser Roderick is waiting for you in the yard.”

“Send Snow in my place,” growled Robb. “He’ll be a better foil for you than I this morning.”

“Snow has been practicing with young Lord Tully since daybreak. He seemed to walk with a limp. And by the looks of Snow, I’d say Marcwell got the best of him.”

I assure you, Marcwell did not cause those wounds.

“Then I shall have to avenge my brother’s loss on you,” said Robb, begrudingly rising from bed.

Robb was in no condition to fight like a Stark. He had barely enough strength to swing a sword, and the sound of the clash of steel ripped through his head as no mere blade could. Greyjoy showed no mercy, landing blow after blow, eventually smacking Robb’s helm with the broadside of his sword. Robb, stumbled, staggered and fell.

“That’s it!” roared Ser Roderick. “Get out. and don’t come back until you are both fit to fight like men. You’d be of no use to the greenest army today.”

Mortified, the pair slinked out of the yard. “Cheer up, Stark,” sias Greyjoy with a grin. “You lost a battle with Ser Roderick, not Jaime Lannister. Come, let’s boil this trouble out of you in the Godswood.”

Robb assented with a glance. His ears were still ringing from the blow to his helm. If Theon would only stop talking, he could hear himself think. He needed to remember what happened with Jon.

The quiet of the Godswood brought him some peace, and even Greyjoy had the sense to shut up in the face of its magisterial silence. The two men picked the warmest pool, the one in the shade of a weirwood tree. The silence was healing, and the heat was bliss.

But the silence was too tempting for Theon, as was the opportunity to brag about his sexuaal exploits from the night before. There was the usual whoring, followed by the drawn out seduction of one of the young maids of Riverrun.

Gods silence him! Will he ever stop?

“Oh hello, Snow,” said Theon, interrupting his own prattling. “Did you survive you bout with young Lord Tully?”

“The question is, did he survive?” Jon retorted. “I’ve come to soak away the memory of his disgrace, if that’s all right with his lordship.”

“Of course, Snow,” replied Robb, missing the sarcasm, but grimacing at the sight of Jon’s naked bruised body. Did I do that to him?

“By looks of it, Tully landed more than a few blows, though in queer places,” said Theon, clueless as ever.

“Gods be my witness, none of these marks were left by Marcwell Tully.” rejoined Jon, stealing an angry glance at Robb.

“Then it must be that lovely lass from Rivverun who I saw you with last night,” said Theon. “I would not have thought her to be such a lusty wench. Tell me, what was her name?”

Jon lunged at Theon. “Have you no respect? Will nothing shut that foul mouth of yours?”

Robb caught Jon’s arm, preventing the start of a nasty fight. “Easy, brother Jon. Theon was just leaving.”

“Leaving for a taste of that blonde wench,” Theon taunted.

“Just go, Greyjoy,” said Robb, still holding Jon’s arm, savoring his touch. His behaviour the night before was coming back to him and he felt a torrent of shame, regret, love and lust. Like everything about Jon, it was confusing beyond all contemplation.

Their eyes met briefly and Jon grabbed back his arm, moved away from Robb, and sank into to pool up to his chin, covering the black and blue record of Robb’s shame. His silence is killing me.

Robb could bear it no longer “Jon, I’m...”

“Say it to the old gods at the heart tree, not me,” snapped Jon. “I belong to you; it was your right. That’s what you said.”

“Jon, I was jealous and drunk.” 

“So you raped me. Isn’t that what a young lord does -- he just takes what he wants?”

“Of course I have those feelings. I am just better at controlling them. I have had them all my life.”

“Then let me honor them with a kiss,” said Robb, sliding a hand behind Jon’s neck and pulling him close for a kiss. This kiss was gentler than last’s night’s, though no less passionate. Jon gasped for breath, surprised and pleased. He moaned with desire when Robb pulled Jon’s hand down to his stiffening prick.

Jon reached over to feel Robb’s shoulders and caressed his skin with the warm water, while Robb felt Jon’s smooth chest.

“God’s Jon, when did you become so muscular. You’ve become a man before my very eyes.”

“This is lovely, but a little too ladylike.” Jon grabbed Robb’s arm and flipped him on his back at the soft muddy edge of the pool. Jon shoved his cock into Robb’s mouth. “And now it is you, my lord, who will submit to my pleasure and writhe with your own.”

Robb’s eyes bulged with shock and then closed in ecstasy as he nearly choked on Jon’s cock. But the struggle would not last long. Jon’s body tensed with pleasure as he removed his prick from Robb’s lips. He spent all over Robb’s neck and chest.

“A tribute of pearls for your lord and master?” Robb joked. Jon laughed and kissed Robb deeply as their bodies slithered together.

“I would stay here forever, and forget the world,” said Robb, holding back a tear.

“But Winterfell needs its young lord.”

“And its young lord commands that you stay with him.”

“As you wish, my lord.”

But the world would not submit to their love. Two months later, their father would be named Hand of the King, and pressure from Lady Stark would force Jon to leave for the Wall. Their passion would be distilled into a tense public farewell in the yard.

“So you are off to take the Black.”

“It was always my color.”

“Good luck to you Snow,” said Robb, his voice tightening with sadness.

“And to you, Stark,” said Jon. His voice was steady, but his eye twitched, forcing back a tear.

Lady Stark watched from the balcony. “It is over,” she sighed. “The bastard’s reign in my son’s heart is over.” But she would be wrong, forever wrong.


End file.
